Weep, Little Lion Man
by Hihippy
Summary: "An Empire that is built on war must be maintained by war, even if is by himself."  Arthur doesn't turn up to Alfred's birthday, again. Alfred goes out looking for him and discovers...  Every country that once colonised has to pay a price.
1. One

This is de-anoned from the Kink Meme. .?thread=55789078#t55789078

* * *

**One**

"_Oh Artie it's my birthday next week and of course all people must attend the Hero's birthday next week you know that right?"  
_

_"I'd have preferred a more warm greeting over the phone than random babble."  
_

_"Yeah, yeah, old man, but you totally can't resist coming this year right because they'll be awesome cake and awesome fireworks and you'll be such a loser to miss all that right?"  
_

_"Promising me with 'fireworks' and 'cake' is not going to make me feel anymore obliged to go."  
_

_".. So are you coming?"  
_

_"No."  
_

_"But Ar—"  
_

_"DO NOT try and whine at me again. I've never even attended any of your blasted birthday parties; what makes you think I'm going to start now?"  
_

_"-There's no reason for you not to come! Why are you always such an ass about this? It was years ago!"  
_

_"I'm not talking about this anymore."  
_

_"… Arthur? … England? … You goddamn moron of a limey bastard don't hang up on me!—"_

* * *

He didn't need him. No siree.

Alfred could manage just fine on his birthday without that weirdo of a Brit, anyway. He would have plenty of fun with all the other nations that would be there. There would be fireworks and cake and colour and music and he would just overall have a great time! He deserved it, one hundred percent. America had had a hard year. His preparations had started as soon as he got home the day before and everything was of course, going as awesomely as usual under the Hero's care. Nothing was going to stop him from enjoying his _birthday_, no doubt. He'd get down to work, no matter what certain _limeys_ insisted to try and ruin his day.

He was fine.

Alfred found himself staring through a mirror.

Today was 4th of July in the year 2010. He would be turning 224 as an official country. That was two hundred and twenty years of him being an adult.

It was two hundred and twenty four times without _him_ turning up.

Alfred used to understand this act. _He_ was across an ocean; it was rather a far way to travel for just a birthday party, especially when there were a lot of things going on.

But as the years passed, Alfred couldn't understand why Arthur couldn't so much as send a present or even a _card_ over, just to wish him such. And as time went by and travelling became a lot easier – it took, what, seven hours to fly over now? It built up on the American like algae being washed up on a dismal beach. But times were changing, maybe Arthur honestly was just that busy?...

This year, however, just threw it over the line. Arthur was _in_ America on the day of his birthday. There had been a meeting just the day before, Arthur having attended it and he wasn't due to head back home till the next weekend. It was perfect; he could've just dropped by, given a present, and heck, he didn't even have to hang around that long if he didn't want to.

But after the phone call yesterday, it looked like he was going to skip out on this too.

Why was he still so hung up about this? Why hadn't he got over it already? Sure, he probably hurt him really bad throwing all that on him and fighting for his freedom but it was a _necessity_ – and it was certainly no reason to _still_ be sulking over it.

Alfred blinked suddenly, before looking down at his hand. His glasses had bent themselves in half as he'd clenched his fist.

This was the last straw.

Twisting them quickly back into shape, Alfred threw a frown at his reflection before he stormed downstairs, leaving the door unlocked for all the countries that would be flooding in any minute now. He usually left them to their own thing.

Alfred was about to bring his _own_ invitee to his party whether he liked it or not.

Whenever there was some sort of international convention, the majority of nations visiting remained at one hotel together. It probably wasn't the best idea in terms of world relations, but it had to do in these times of recession and price cuts, even if they were _the_ nations.

Relaying back with no answer to a phone call made from the reception desk, Alfred grumbled and made his way up to the room. Spain nudged past him on the way, blinking for a moment.

"Amigo, why are you not at your own _fiesta_?"

Alfred didn't even turn around.

"Someone to fetch."

Antionio's eyes widened slightly at the gruff response, unseen by the other. The Spaniard then blinked, shaking his head.

"I will be seeing you later then."

He turned around and continued walking, leaving Alfred to disappear down the hallway and make his way up the stairs. Eyes were downcast, lips tightened in morbid determination. He was planning to barge in, grab that stupid limey by the arm and drag him out of this hotel and to his party so not only could Alfred have a good day but so _he_ could for once.

He reached door number 74, staring at the wood panelling for a moment. It was closed.

The American reached out to the door handle to open it, before grunting.

It was locked.

Rattling it, Alfred growled before kicking against the wood, hammering the door with his knuckles.

"Hey, Arthur! Open this door!"

Silence.

Oh, this was not funny. Alfred _knew_ he was in there – the concierge had claimed that no one had come out of that door all day, so there was no other explanation – but he was ignoring him? He could be in the shower or such, but by now Alfred would have heard some sort of frustrated yell rebound out from the other side of the door.

"Come on, old man! You can't be that deaf!"

Nothing.

He should have had a raging Brit ripping his jugular out by now. Alfred rattled the door knob harder.

"Come on, you can't be ignoring me! It's my _birthday_!—"

A large clunk, and Alfred looked down. The handle had come loose in his hand.

He stared at it, before noticing that the door was now opening of its own accord, swinging loose and leading into a dark room.

Alfred's expression fell blank at what was inside.

"…_England…?"_


	2. Two

**Two.**

"… _England…?"  
_

_Young fingers grasped at the edge of the table. Bright, unblighted eyes looked upwards, a mouth posing half open. His expression furrowed as he gently reached forward and clung gently to the fabric of the man sat in front of him. There was a light tug.  
_

_The other male, his back a bit more rigid than usual, had his arm laid out in front of him, resting over a bowl. A bundle of cloth was pressed over part of his skin, green eyes wincing as he dabbed at it.  
_

_The tugging came again, a little more urgent. Blue eyes wavered.  
_

_"…England…!"  
_

_His arm was showing red. Why was he turned away? Why did he seem so fragile? Alfred didn't realise he noticed these things, but all he knew was that England wasn't right and that really quite made him uncomfortable. He knew he'd just come back and there were some different people about – what had happened?  
_

_The taller figure finally looked up sharply, a second before his expression quickly relaxed into something more soft; a façade. He managed a small smile.  
_

_"Ah, America. How are you?"  
_

_The child frowned, and pointed almost accusingly.  
_

_".. Your arm…!"  
_

_Arthur glanced down at the accused limb. He seemed to give it the expression as though he'd only just realised it was there.  
_

_"… Ah, yes. Quite a nasty cut."  
_

_America frowned, unimpressed.  
_

_"But.. but hoooow?..."  
_

_The arm was moved so it rest on the Briton's knee; it had stopped bleeding by now but by looking at the cloth, he'd had to have it on for quite some time. Arthur turned around to face the other, leaning down so he was on relative level with the colony.  
_

_"Some horrible people do not like us living here. They were trying to attack you."  
_

_As though in response, Alfred held out his arms at the same time Arthur went to pick him up, setting him on his lap. He patted him.  
_

_"But I fought them off. Its okay, they're gone now. They got a bad cut on me, but I'm alright. See?" He ruffled the other's hair with the same arm, but faltered when he saw that the other looked more annoyed than overjoyed to be safe.  
_

_"W-Why did you have to save me and and get hurt, England! T-That's not fair! I should.. I should be able to look after me, after—after you!" the other suddenly exclaimed, showing his anger by promptly shoving the other in the chest, which the other winced at again. He looked down at the child, blinking.  
_

_He suddenly smiled.  
_

_Pushing the bowl back on the table, he placed the other on it, looking at him. There was a sort of soft aura about him. Safe. He held eye contact with the other, firm but understanding.  
_

_"America, you're my brother, alright? I am going to protect you. I made that promise when you became my family." He petted the other's hair again, this time absentmindedly rubbing a bit of a smudge off the other's cheek with his thumb. "I want you to promise me you'll trust me. You are my brother.  
_

_'I'll take the pain for you.'"_

* * *

"…A-Arthur…!"

The room was dark. Curtains were drawn, thrown tightly shut. Clothes were scattered carelessly on the floor, highly unusual for someone as pristine as Arthur. A mug was left, the tea gone cold, on the bedside table.

In the middle of the room was a bed.

The covers were rolled up on in themselves, a mound in the middle of the mattress.

There was a body.

Alfred's eyes widened.

"…_A-Arthur_!"

He rushed into the room, stumbling over his own feet. The figure lay there, curled up upon himself. His hair was mussed, as though he'd been tossing and turning, and his skin was pale. It glistened slightly, as though he was breaking out in a cold sweat.

America didn't know what to do. As soon as his eyes had rest on the lump all sense of responsibility and maturity had left him. Something was _wrong_ with Arthur.

An overwhelming urge to run to him and cry struck the teen.

He quickly snapped himself out of it as he heard a small gasp coming from the bed. His eyes quickly widened and he lurched towards the middle of the room, practically toppling onto the bed itself.

The bed-ridden lump's eyes were closed tight. Lips, open just slightly, eventually seemed to twitch in just the slightest form of words.

Alfred, whose glasses were practically hanging off his face, felt his throat go dry.

Something was so wrong.

"…A-Arthur? Can.. can you hear me?"

There was a grunt.

Alfred hid at the edge of the bed a little, before tentatively reaching out and gently touching the top of his shoulder. He was trembling.

"..A-Arthur, oh g-gosh, Arthur… England!"

Desperately, he nudged the shoulder in an attempt to rouse him. Big mistake.

A scream shot out from between those lips, before choking followed it. Alfred had fallen back in surprise before he could see the other's eyes finally flitting open, muted in his own pain.

_What was happening?...  
_

Alfred recovered a little, but took a while for him to realise that his heavy breathing was not alone. Blinking, he looked up.

The covers were shifting, slowly. A voice rasped. The American couldn't understand it.

Slowly, slowly, the covers rose up and slowly slid off.

Arthur and Alfred stared at each other.

They both shook.

Arthur's expression was pale. His eyes were flat, the gleam of the emerald having reduced to a dull stare. They were circled by a slight redness, smudges smeared under his eyes upon closer inspection. His shirt hung off him, drenched in sweat.

The Briton's knuckles went white as he clutched the covers, tightly. He winced. A tear rolled against his cheek in response, indifferent.

Eyebrows furrowed, deeply. Arthur's lips quivered. His voice hung in the silence.

"get out."

It was barely a murmur.

Alfred looked up, his muscles barely being able to contract and swallow due to just how stunned he was. He managed out a small squeak in response.

"…W-wha—"

"get out."

"…N-No, A-arthur, What—"

"_get out_."

Arthur's expression had gone dark. Slowly, slowly, his legs shifted to the edge of the bed, but it seemed quite an effort to keep himself upright.

"move."

America could barely believe he was hearing this.

"..W-what? N-No, Arthur, there's something so wrong with you and I can't leave—" He was up onto his feet by now, having to take some effort from his knees shaking. There was something stopping him from moving closer to the Briton in question. "—And I need to help and—"

"move or i'll do it myself."

Alfred didn't move.

Arthur's expression grew dangerous. With a small, small whimper which he desperately held back against his throat, England staggered onto his feet. He was slow, his footsteps swinging almost in clockwork till he reached the other.

Alfred remained frozen.

"Arthur—"

"_go_."

The smaller nation kept his head low, silently, successfully, pushing the other towards the door. It was meant to be forceful yet he doubted he could lift a book with that strength. However, it managed to work Alfred and nudge him back towards the door due to being simply _too_ astounded and scared to do anything. His eyes were wide, his mouth gaped open, pupils shook, and he was unable to simply comprehend what he was seeing; He did notice, though, that Arthur was limping a little. He was also only using one arm to push him towards the door – the other hung almost loosely by his side, clenched almost in an agonising fist.

That still didn't explain what had happened to his _brother_.

"A-Arthur, no—"

"_go_."

England's teeth gritted, fighting down another cry; his shoulders heavily trembled.

"don't come back."

With one weak push, Arthur managed to make Alfred trip back out of the door. It gently swung closed. A moment later, and a large thud was heard, a deep sob accompanying the shock that echoed across his mind.

Alfred stood there, numb.

_England…_


	3. Three

**Three.**

It was dusk. The sun was sinking slowly below the horizon, shadows casting longingly across the street corners. Houses were lit up in anticipation of the day, crowds gathered in each house. Laughter spilled out from the doorways, smiles and joy radiating through the buildings.

Outside, it was silent. Except for the panting of a lone individual, speeding through the streets as though he was running away from an imponderable doom. His jacket, undone in the summer night, flapped a little behind him as his steps hit the pavement. Alfred could barely see clearly through his glasses, which were sliding down his nose in his haste.

He hadn't been aware of what he'd done after that door had closed on him. He'd felt he stood there for the longest time, staring as though he expected Arthur to open the door and appear completely fine, and start laughing in his face that he fell for it.

But he didn't, and it wasn't till he heard another sob did he react.

He ran.

_Coward_.

Shaking his head free, he blindly turned a corner, heading back to the one place he didn't want to be. Home.

Arthur couldn't have been in the pain that he seemed to be, could he? It made no sense whatsoever what he just saw. Why would he even be like that? On his birthday, no less?...

Was this … his fault?...

He was probably over thinking things. Alfred tended to _avoid_ doing that, for this very reason. What was the use?

Well, seeing Arthur like that was more than enough, he supposed.

He flurried around a corner, a car driving by in silent wonder at the abruptness of this lone individual.

The house at the end of the street was lit up; light flooding out into the street. There was the hustle and soft beat of music playing from it. It was full of inhabitants, no doubt causing amazing havoc with drinking games and raiding the fridge. Alfred suddenly felt sick at the thought of confronting them all. Why did this have to happen to him on today of all days? All he wanted to do was burst into the room, hurl himself up to his bedroom and hide under his bed covers and pretend that all he had seen hadn't ever happened and continue his life on as normal, because while Alfred could act superbly well…

When something shocked him beyond belief, it _showed_.

The gate was kicked open with a harsh creek, the sounds and laughter getting louder as his scuffed trainers approached the door. Every year, the nations gathered round to Alfred's and had a party, mainly because he invited just about everyone. As much as most countries disagreed with other or ganged up against one another most of the time, the truth was that if there was a gathering and it had alcohol and music and others were going to be there, you could guarantee there'd be a party.

The door slammed loudly in the kitchen with a loud bang, and the countries gathered in there exclaimed a roar of laughter.

It shattered with the same punch.

The whole room fell silent in an echo. The rest of the room seem to shimmer in the same way, the nations crawling through to see what had caused the break in mood.

Alfred stood there, his pants heavy with the strain. While everyone stared at him in shock, it wasn't the door that had rooted everyone in place.

It was his expression. A permanent plaster of fear fed his face, his lip quivering. His glasses were slid halfway down his nose, but he made no motion to move them back into place. But the worst thing, Matthew found himself noting, was his eyes. He'd lost that dazzling confidence they usually held, something that he hadn't seen happen in about ten years.

His hand trembled, and the door was thrust shut again. Alfred stared, towards particular nations.

"... _Arthur_..."

He stumbled forward, eyes still wide, and sunk into a chair. Francis, with a resigned sigh, placed his drink down and approached the nation, kneeling to his level.

"America, what is it?"

He found himself staring at the Frenchman, incredulous. Surely he must know? Surely he would know that something as bad happened to the Briton!

Pulling in a breath, he looked incredulously at the other. "...A-Arthur—H-Hotel—h-he was l-limping and and c-crying and _what happened_-" His panic bubbled into fury, his fists clenching and leaning forward towards the other, fire in his eyes.

"Something happened t-to Arthur and holy shit y-you _must_ know what's wrong otherwise I'll—I-I'll-" The words disappeared in his mouth, the chair having knocked back as he'd stood up almost as soon as he'd sat down.

Francis blinked.

"Ah."

Nervous murmurs struck up amongst some of the others. While they all knew he was young, none of them had ever really seen Alfred look so vulnerable. It was something, they were coming to realise, that he hid very well.

Francis remained calm, even as the other loomed over him. He stood up, pressed his hands to America's shoulders and led him out of the kitchen into the living room, where he gently pushed him down onto the sofa. Like a swarm, the others crowded at the door. This was really not planning to be the party they would usually expect to see.

"Now, tell me." Francis remarked, setting himself beside the American. "You went to Arthur's room, oui?"

"Y-Yeah a-and it was d-dark and he was in b-bed a-and he—"

"Calm down, garcon. He was in bed, and what happened?"

"H-he s-shouted but not he was in so much pain oh god Francis what the hell happened he got me out a-and I...I-c-came here-"

A finger pressed to his lips to silence him. Francis looked at him, earnestly.

"_Amerique_, I do not know what you think happened, but I am rather surprised. Has... it never been told to you?"

A confused, slow, shake of the head. He sighed. "Just as _Angleterre_ to keep it to himself, then. I suppose I might as well tell you—" He looked up to the others, studying for a moment. His sigh grew.

"Are you not aware what happens to ex-empires? I suppose not, Amerique. You were never truly an Empire. Ah, but in the words of my own philosophers, let us just say:

_Un empire fondé par la guerre doit se maintenir par la guerre_, even if it is with himself."

* * *

The French translates as 'An empire founded by war has to maintain itself by war', and was said by Charles de Montesquieu, a french philosopher.


	4. Four

**Four.**

_"War is like a game of Chess, Alfred._

_You've never really come across it before, but it's not an obvious play of events, it's not something you charge into and win by force. No, war is so much more than that: it takes time, it takes skill and most of all it takes practice. You have to be careful. You can't attack everyone at once and expect to win just because you have the most weapons. To play war successfully, thought needs to be put into it._

_It can also be done in many different forms, just like there are many different ways to play chess. As an Empire in war, you'll be most similar with this strategy._

_New pieces can be gained and added to your own collection. Either they are ambushed from the enemy, or as a loose end. Sometimes, the piece to be gained is heavily defended by other pieces, and is all but impossible to gain._

_Well, usually impossible._

_Either way, winning is about methods and tactics. You might have all the pieces in your hands, but you could lose everything without knowing what had happened. Alternatively, you may think it's all over, that you're down to your last pieces; yet place it carefully, put enough hope into yourself, and you could win a game with just one remaining piece._

_A War is made to claim territory and build pieces, Alfred, even it is at the cost of your own. It can mean a lot of things. War can mean claims of territory, much like that one had just been, or it could be to fight for something else, something more personal. Sometimes, you have to fight for your freedom. You have to fight for your rights. You have to fight to be on top._

_You have to play for the rest of them."  
_

* * *

"War was never a game, _Amerique_. Sacrifices have to be made in War, especially for what you may gain for what you lose. The Empire, as is said, is built on war – how else would you gain land? Except for the most barren of places, there is life to a land. It is how it is. If they succeed, they gain a colony.

But it is not how the colony is created and how the culture is elaborated and how the journey rolls into that land becoming it's own; _non_, it is the aftermath that is the most essential. All Forces have an equal and opposite reaction, yes? So what would occur once a nation becomes free from it's coloniser? The newly free nation claims freedom and a permanent break from pain and isolation – ah, but what happens to the former Empire itself?

Every nation's independence day is a reason to celebrate. It is more important to some than others, but the message is always the same; I am free

How does the original coloniser act? Why, claiming colonies instated greed. Greed was always a sin, _mon cher_, and so they must take the consequences. A day in agony to pay for the sin of greed they committed at the time. Some nations can fare some days better than others, but it depends on how well the nation in question has moved on. If he is still affected deeply, emotionally by the loss of a colony he will feel it the most. So, to conclude my explanation, mon americain, is that our dear Arthur is in pain right now because of _you,_ and the fight you made. And that is that."

He didn't understand.

They all looked stunned. Some of the more sullen countries such as Japan and Spain looked down to the ground at the announcement, rather densely silent. Suddenly, frowns were pulled as the realisation started to sink in, lips curled back into a scowl, in shock. Voices struck suddenly harsher, raising in tense volume. Frequencies strongly read of guilt, of disgrace; of anger.

The trepidation snapped with one sentence.

"Hey, I suppose ya can't say he didn't deserve it, mate."

Alfred lurched onto his feet.

His fists were clenched, and as he turned his head, his expression was burrowed downwards. His voice barely came out as a whisper, but it struck the others more than the silence that had just returned.

"_Don't say that_."

Everyone looked at each other, before India suddenly elbowed the others away and fought her way to the front, before Alfred. Some couldn't quite believe that she would even try to face America when he was clearly so distressed.

"Why not, America? You can't say he didn't deserve it. He treated my people harshly, he even did things to people that he never colonised or never could."

China looked away, but didn't speak.

"It was his own fault; a lot of resources wouldn't have been ruined if it wasn't for him and the countries that he took over by force. There was no consideration, for the people living there, for the future, and especially for any of the nations that he stole from so cruelly in the first place!" At that point, Alfred snapped his head up and gave the impression he was about to charge her, before a hand placed on his arm. He blinked, and looked down to Francis.

Francis held steady, looking at America for a few moments with a patient expression. The teen faltered.

He looked back to the group, and he sighed.

"Of course, this applies to any former Empire and whether they feel for their former colonies or not. Some are worse than others, _oui_…" He briefly glanced at a corner, almost longingly, for a moment. "However; the point is that Arthur still seems to take quite badly to your claim of independence all those years ago. Have you never noticed that he avoids contact with these people on these days like the plague?"

"B-But there's no way-"

"_Amerique_, for someone who is claimed to be close with the Englishman, you appear to underestimate or do not understand his feelings very well. Maybe you should ask him _yourself_-"

France never got to finish his speech, for voices violently rose again at that point, of protests of how nations should be left to suffer on their own, or how this was one large hoax the ex-empiric nations had decided to pull, or how they couldn't believe that such a thing had been hidden from them, the fear, the horror, the disgruntlement clear in a muddle of their faces, all one extravagant palette of emotions building into an abomination of anger and shock in the middle of the lounge. No one could quite let it settle.

Alfred stood amongst the chaos, his expression the single lull of turmoil in the room.

Just as slowly, his arm reached up to rub at his eyes. The rest of them were ignored until he spoke.

He couldn't stand it any more.

"Party's over. A-All of you, get out. _Now_..."

Canada, from a corner of the room, looked at a photo on the mantelpiece.

_Nothing ever quite changed with these two, eh..._


	5. Five

**Five.**

There he was.

The small silhouette was moving its way down the hallway, and from this distance it didn't even look like just twelve hours ago he'd been in absolute agony to the point he could barely walk.

This didn't make _sense_.

"-Arthur! _Hey_, Arthur!-"

His footsteps increased in pace down the hotel hallway, and he sought to catch up with the Briton. After sending everyone out yesterday, he had sat around all evening. He tried calling Arthur after getting over the initial shock out of everything that had been revealed to him, then somehow still managed to go find time to watch the fireworks from the hill (albeit rather miserably) and return home and leave more messages on Arthur's phone with no sleep till well past midnight.

Some birthday.

He knew Arthur had a flight later this evening. It made sense to why he returned home today rather than yesterday, though the American wasn't quite so sure he liked what he now knew.

The country in question passed through one of the fire doors, seeming completely oblivious to the call of his name.

Slamming the door back open as America passed through it, he growled.

"_England_!"

He turned around.

* * *

"_America."_

_"England."_

_The room was stiff with smoke, and a bold tinge of alcohol. Arthur didn't even need to take two steps into the room before he felt his eyes sting slightly. Healing wounds became agitated in defence._

_"So, I see you did it."_

_"I did."_

_England made his way further into the room, his jacket folded over one of his arms. He proceeded to place it over the back of a chair._

_"I... have to admit. I didn't think you would go ahead with it. Even after everything."_

_His blue eyes were hard to read at this point, but the scowl that formed on the other's lips was clear enough._

_"Neither did I."_

_As neutral as the Briton was keeping his expression, he could note how distressed America seemed. The tense, slight shaking of his hands, the strangled voice..._

_He sat himself down, and crossed his legs. It was probably a bad idea, as he winced. Leaning forward, he tried to get the other's gaze._

_"Well, it's over."_

_"Yeah."_

_Arthur sighed._

_"Alfred, you-"_

_"Shut up."_

_He blinked. As arrogant as Alfred was, Arthur was not used to being plain told to 'shut up' by most people, much less him._

_"...-"_

_"I dropped that bomb, it's over. He's surrendered. The war's over, and we can go back to peace now. I have to concentrate and make sure that Russia doesn't overtake Germany now."_

_"Alfred-"_

_"So we don't need to talk about it any more, alright? It's gone. It's gone. I-I don't need to touch those things any more. They're gone."_

_Arthur sighed, irritated._

_"-What I was trying to say, is, are you alright? But I suppose you've answered me that. You know you didn't have to drop them. You still had that choice."_

_"No... No I didn't."_

* * *

"...Why?"

There was silence. His lips were a thin line, and his arms folded. He seemed impatient.

"... Jesus Christ Arthur, answer me on thi-"

A heavy sigh cut him off.

"I _have_ to do it. I don't have a choice, do I?"

"But you didn't _tell_ me-"

"Why do I have to? I'm not the only one who has to go through this sort of pain. We all have to go through pain in general that is ours and ours alone only. That only is up to the bearer on how they handle it. Why should I have to tell you anything? I didn't tell anyone else. No doubt France or someone told you, which they would have just figured from simple logic. I never said a word to anyone."

* * *

"_I have to... look after people. I.. I have to make sure everyone's safe..."_

_"Who told you that?"_

_It earned him a glare._

_"If I hadn't dropped it and killed those lives, Arthur, it would've earned me an invasion of Japan. That means at least another year of the war, maybe losing 100,000 of my men... and on his..."_

_He looked up at the elder men, blearily. His eyes were grazed, almost a little bloodshot. It was clear he hadn't slept much, if at all._

_"You know what Japan's soldiers are like. I... I couldn't have let them do any more to themselves. I had to protect them, too. A war still going on when the majority were still trying to fix themselves and recover... would've hurt everyone more..."_

_He didn't look away. Rather, his gaze grew harder._

_"England, why do we even have war? Why did we have to have this war? So many people got hurt. I shouldn't have bothered jumping in. My people got hurt. It was nice to win, but we got hurt. You got hurt. Even Germany got hurt..."_

_"America, you should know full well yourself why."_

_"And why."_

_"Sometimes you have to have to fight for peace. No matter the pain."_

* * *

Alfred had taken a few steps towards the other, almost as though he was advancing on him. The Englishman was clearly not happy with the other but he made no moves to step back himself.

"That doesn't mean you couldn't have told me! At least I wouldn't have spent all that time thinking that you just didn't like me and were still sore about it and that you didn't want to be around me!"

"Shut _up_." Arthur hissed.

America stopped.

* * *

_Alfred didn't reply for a few moments. He gently got a hold of the glass he'd been drinking from, and thoughtfully took a sip. As he placed it back down, he sighed, and ran a hand through his hair exasperatingly._

_"Don'tcha thing I know that? Why do you think I decided to do it? I just... thinking of it now, I don't like the power. I have... I.. I care for people, Arthur. I care for you. I care for everyone, even if they damned well don't like me."_

_He suddenly laughed, a hoarse, rather chilling laugh. Arthur blinked._

_"Which—Which is why I have to do this thing, right? Don't mean I like it, though. But I'll make pain if I have to so that people can be safe. If that's how you're going to put it... I.. I just want people to be safe and happy, Arthur..."_

* * *

"Don't you bloody know anything? What if I did tell you? Wouldn't you be spending every bloody fourth of July and thinking of how in pain I was? Would you be able to enjoy one flipping day that actually means something to you then?"

"But it's still not the truth, Art-"

"_Alfred_, the truth hurts. You can go on all you want about how much truth is most important, but it can hurt. I'm sure it hurt you – heck, you're here now, rambling and looking like you got no ruddy sleep. You know what, Alfred? You may not flipping believe it, but I don't _want_ you to be hurt."

He looked down, and sighed. He glared.

"Even though you've done nothing but hurt me, thought nothing about anything except yourself, I still give a shit about you. I couldn't let you know that I spent every single fourth of July rolling about in agony. It's mainly my fault to begin with. I couldn't and I can't stop you from doing what you want, America. Even I know that."

* * *

"_I'm meant to be the Hero, aren't I?..."_

_

* * *

_

"Arthur, but you don't-"

"- But even if it isn't my responsibility any more, you... you're still my family, no matter what _you_ want to call me any more. And that does mean a duty, America. A duty that I follow, even if you've denied me all those years ago. I promised."

* * *

"_You can't always be the hero, even if you think you are."_

* * *

"I take that pain, even if you don't want me to. You're still family."

* * *

"_En... Engwand, you're.. MY hero!..."_

* * *

"My brother." Alfred found himself mouthing along with him. He stood there, stunned once again into silence. After a few minutes of both of them just staring at each other, the Briton seemed to get the point. He shuffled his jacket over his shoulders, adjusting the suitcase he was carrying beside him. He ran a hand through his hair.

"Now, If you don't mind, I have a plane to catch."

"Arthur, I..."

He turned around.

"Yes?"

America gazed at him for the longest time, his expression muddled. He opened his mouth to speak, but resorted to sighing and looking away. England raised an eyebrow, hid his own expression behind a slight frown, before eventually turning away and leaving the other as he trundled down the corridor, disappearing from view.

Alfred whispered, alone.

"... _Thank you_..."

Nothing had changed.


	6. Six

**Six.**

8:47am.

Alfred stood at the head of the room, fidgeting. He gazed up at the clock, then at the door. Most of the nations who were seated watched him wearily. They all knew that if he was coming, he would have arrived by now.

But Alfred would not lose hope.

His gaze rested on the door for a moment, before jumping out of his skin as it creaked suddenly.

They paused.

"Just the wind." France murmured to himself, sighing as he took a slow sip of his coffee. The seat next to him was empty.

Alfred looked up at the clock again. 8:51am. India was sat in her seat rather stubbornly and not really making a point to show she was the slightest bit worried. This had happened for many, many years, and if it was really that bad, then surely things would have been revealed before now, or something would have happened.

She folded her arms.

Of course, America tended to put his emotions before his thoughts.

Lithuania looked at the clock, frowning slightly.

"Eh, America, should we start with the-"

"No."

He didn't keep his eyes from the clock. 8:53.

The whole conference started to fidget. Canada looked worriedly over to his brother.

He didn't look too well. Arthur hadn't turned up thus far, and he knew, he knew what Alfred planned to do if he didn't turn up to this meeting. Alfred did not like pretending things never happened – he had to face things head on.

And today was going to be the day.

Alfred stared hard at the clock again, before even fumbling in his pocket to look at his Blackberry. He bit back a stiff sigh. Alfred stared hard at the clock again, before even fumbling in his pocket to look at his Blackberry. He bit back a stiff sigh. He paced the front of the table.

Arthur hadn't turned up.

_Why hadn't he turned up?_

He hadn't talked to him since…

8:57...

He made to take a drink of his coffee, before realising he'd downed his fifth cup over 20 minutes ago.

The other nations were starting to become exasperated.

"_Amerika_, I really think that the meeting should get a a start right n-"

The door creaked, and everyone froze. Almost simultaneously, every single nation turned towards the double doors leading into the meeting room.

It opened, and Latvia stepped through. He looked at the others, nervously, and scuttled quickly to his seat.

"S-Sorry!"

The second hand clicked onto 9:00.

The polystyrene cup crumpled in his hand, and Alfred hurled it at the floor. He snarled.

"That's _it_!"

His jacket was thrown over his shoulder, suitcase thrown against his back, and before France could stand up ("_America!_-") The door was swung open, and bounced a little as the American exited the room.

Gone.

* * *

The clouds, upon entering into London, were a grey and murky sort. Considering it was the middle of August, it made the heat rather stifling to most natives, though to Alfred there was a bitter chill in the air. He wasn't quite sure why that was, however.

England lived somewhere in a building down on the outskirts of the city. It was an old stone house, something that the man himself probably built with his own bare hands. It had actually managed to stand all this time; miraculously, even through the worst of the Blitz.

The windows to the building had the curtains peeking open, and there was a car in the drive. Some signs of life, then.

Feeling suddenly rather breathless (even after hailing a cab to the station, fidgeting so much on the train over the channel that the Frenchwoman sat opposite him was eyeing him rather suspiciously and practically running from the station what was probably over a mile to Arthur's house), it was only as he reached the rather pathetic picket gate at the end of his front garden did his lungs contract and all the breath was punched out of him.

He couldn't just knock on the door and demand to be let in, could he?

Jumping over the gate, he slowly scuttled over to the front window, peeking conspicuously (or so he hoped) through the gap in the curtains.

He jumped back instantly.

Arthur was stood in the kitchen, wrapped in a dressing gown and hovering over the electric kettle that was plugged into the wall. Alfred knew by his more-mussed-hair-than-usual that Arthur couldn't have been moving around too much this morning.

His breath quickening, he ran a hand through his own blond locks. Could he?...

He yelped as the front door was wrenched open at the side of him, freezing against the wall. Arthur looked wearily to the side of him. As he spoke, he sounded bleary and stuffed.

"Alfred, I know you're there. Come on."

The door was left open, and he disappeared inside.

Alfred stared at the wallpaper of the Briton's hallway, dumbfounded.

He was... meant to go... in?

Blinking, the American entered into the hallway, passing down the hall until he reached the kitchen. Arthur was still stood there (_leaning_, Alfred noted, at the hand he saw resting against the counter) and slowly made himself a cup of tea. Alfred, still shocked, shuffled uneasily beside the fridge next to him, which was smaller than even Arthur. He never comprehended how the older man could manage with such a small refrigerator.

There was a soft clink as the spoon was discarded to the side, and Arthur picked up and took a sip of the tea. He breathed out a sigh.

"India's was always an odd day. Sometimes I get just a headache and a dead arm, other times I wake up with a fever, dead arm and my hand feeling like it's going to be pulled off."

He found himself staring at Arthur's arm, though he couldn't even tell right now whether he was in pain or not. England himself had his eyes closed, and continued to take a slow sip of his drink.

"With Australia it's always my leg. Horrible, horrible pins and needles. A lot of the time it's horribly hard to walk on. If I've had to work or go out and about on those days I've usually had to borrow a crutch or a walking stick. Rather irritating, really."

However, he paused to smile, fondly.

"But since your brother was the only one to ask for independence rather than fight or demand it, he… I don't get any pain."

Arthur looked at the other for a moment, before turning around and opening a cupboard, which contained an assortments of tins. He pulled out some hot chocolate, a mug from the shelf below, and started spooning in some hot chocolate in for the other, absent-mindedly. Alfred could only really watch him do this, and become increasingly irritated with himself.

Why was Arthur like this? He had every right to hate him and push him away after he left him and declared independence, yet he still stuck around at the end of the day and even put up with him. He even spent days in agony because of him, as he'd discovered. As much as they argued and had spats, Arthur was still around for him and didn't try to avoid him, which to Alfred meant an awful lot. Arthur was still his friend after everything (even though Arthur would probably deny it) and what does Alfred do in return? Create more washing up for him.

America's hands clenched, and he suddenly strode forward to snatch the spoon from him.

"I can do it."

Arthur looked up.

He stepped away. "Fine, go on."

It took the American a second to, but he apprehensively lifted the spoon and dumped the powder back in, making sure to fill a good third of the cup up. He honestly didn't know what it was, but food at England's house was never as sweet over here.

He still ate his food though; he called it bland and horrible, but it was clear that when Arthur cooked he did try his best and did make an effort with it. He'd generally bring over a rather large pot of stew and dish it out and have seconds and thirds available all for America to down and eat. If he was having a meal at say, France's or Italy's or most other countries, he'd be given a large plate with a few crumbs dotted about. It was very well cooked; almost into an art – but it never seemed to be cooked with the same way that Arthur's was.

Ah, damn. He didn't like this all one bit.

He only stopped spooning hot chocolate in when he felt England cough beside him. Alfred quickly poured hot water in, put milk in, stirred, before lifting up the cup to take a sip from it.

He took a sip from it, yelped as his tongue burnt, and fanned it profusely. Arthur, at this point, was leaning against the counter at the side of him, sipping his own tea indignantly.

"You never were very graceful or patient."

America frowned, grumpily.

"Nothing wrong with that."

"Suppose not, but it probably didn't help you in a few things. You were always headstrong."

"Huh."

"And always very keen to not admit to things you didn't want to believe."

"-Okay, okay. I know you like pointing things out that you know me and all that and stuff and how I 'never changed' even as a kid but there is a _reason_ I'm here Arthur- and that isn't to listen to you berate me like you always do-"

"Then why are you here?" Arthur turned to look at him, "If there's one thing I know about you, Alfred F. Jones, is that you don't like dealing with things that you're afraid of."

"I'm not _scared_!"

"Oh? Your actions over the past couple of days say otherwise, ever since your birthday. Your bloody hand is shaking right now."

America promptly put down the cup, and turned to step and face right in front of England, almost as though he was towering over him.

"You know what? _Fine_. I saw you in agony. I tried talking to you about it. You basically told me to ignore it. I... _can't_. You told me that it was part of life and blah blah - y'know, I don't _care_. There- there must be something I can do – there must be some way we can work out to fix these sorts of things – if – if we can get people on the moon then surely we can fix just a little pain-"

A hand took a hold of his arm. He stopped. Arthur sighed.

"You really never changed. You always wanted to try and fix things..."

"But I _can_ fix this, I'll make sure I can-"

"- Alfred. Have you ever seen, on the streets, in houses, wherever – children? Children playing, children with friends, children with parents."

"What about it?-"

"Their parents are always there to look after them. They pick them up, let them play in the streets, protect them, nurture them, show them love – right?"

Arthur's other hand raised up to rest on his other arm, so they were both stood in front of each other, his hands held gently around America's wrists. He looked up towards the American, and held his gaze deeply.

"Listen to me, Alfred. You might have never brought up someone of your own but I have – I've done it so many times over that it may seem that I don't remember some of them. That's wrong. I remember every single one of them. Each of them different, some of them behaved differently, some better than others, yes. Some may have varying opinions of how well I managed to bring them all up – sometimes, I wonder myself whether what they say is true-" he glanced away for a moment "- either way, you were the first one I brought up and the first one to leave.

I know we tend to use all these bloody formalities about relations and refer to each other as siblings but you were the closest thing I ever had to a son. You were the only one that _chose_ me."

His hands tightened.

"Yes, I do think you were a twat. Yes, you did break my heart when you declared independence – and succeeded. Yes, I did hate you for the longest time. We had our arguments, but I suppose in a way that should be normal, what you did, if I'm really going to say you were a son to me.

But after the war, when we were forced together, when we had to band together, when I was forced to rely on you. After the war ruined me – my empire over, when I had to give up all my colonies at the end, it was clear then that you had succeeded me. You've been two hundred and twenty four years as a nation exactly – yes, I do remember. It is rather hard to forget for me, isn't it? - but you've become the next superpower. Whether you were prepared for it, I don't know. It's hard to watch it from a parental point of view. But please, if I've watched you manage to fight and become the only superpower in 200 years of being a nation, when it took me God knows how long – how could I not be proud at the same time?

On your birthdays, when I do have to go through a lot of pain, I could roll about and think about what sort of pain you put me through and why the hell I have to go through it all the time, but that would hurt me more because I'd be lying to myself in a way, I suppose. You want to know I get through it? When I was bringing you up as my own I was _happy_. I thought someone did care about me. I _had_ someone to care for who appreciated it. To be honest, Alfred, it never changed. I _do_ care for you. I hope I've showed that since, but you know how terrible I am at that thing. But I remember those times. I remember WHY I'm still in pain even now. You _are_ my son. You can think whatever the heck you want at the end of the day, Alfred, but you're my son. You'll always be that and there's nothing I can stop from being in pain because of it. But at the end of the day, when someone becomes a parent, they sacrifice themselves, no matter how that is. And to be honest? If I wasn't prepared for that from the beginning, I would have let France keep you."

He kept his gaze on Alfred, and kept hold of his expression with a long look. There was an eventual sigh, and he patted his arms slightly.

"You never stopped being a child – my – child to me. I know you feel guilty for what this is, I know you want to do something about it, but … don't worry. This is me you're worrying about here."

He chuckled.

"You might understand one day, if you bring up a nation or someone for yourself. You might actually understand a word I'm on about. Though that thought is rather odd..."

Alfred didn't even speak, but instead flung his arms around the other in a rushed motion, with a force that pushed them both against the counter. His grip held tightly and he buried his head desperately in against the Briton's shoulder – feeling the slight scratch of an unshaven cheek, coolness of his neck, and that slight, tired warmth that reverberated from the worn softness of Arthur's dressing gown. He buried himself in against it, deeper, deeper into the safety and bliss that was Arthur's shoulder.

_Then again_, thought Arthur, _actions do speak louder than words._

Alfred's hands fisted the cotton against Arthur's back. His shoulders tightened. He didn't want to let go. He couldn't. He _couldn't_. As much as big important speeches go, Alfred still had to protect, still had to try. He still wanted to try, for _Arthur_. His own Father.

He sniffed, and all Arthur did was smile lightly to himself. He reached around, and rubbed Alfred's back in a soothing motion.

"Idiot," he said.


End file.
